The Writing of History
In a former blog I talked about Historical Fiction as a possible genre to personalize historical facts. I continue in that vein with another short story. What happened at a remote late eighteenth century Canadian, Saskatchewan River fur trade post when the brandy supplies kept disappearing? The story is based on North West Company’s clerk Duncan M’Gillvray’s Fort George journals, John McDonald of Garth’s memoirs, and archaeological investigations at the fort site in the 1970s. Our main man, chief trader Angus Shaw, faces a problem. Pilfering. By his men. How does he deal with it? Read on and find out.
The Story
Fort George, Alberta, 1793
One of the fort Engages rushed into chief trader Angus Shaw’s rather spacious private quarters in the Big House, sitting on the high banks of the North Saskatchewan River. Before Shaw could ask what the man wanted, the words came tumbling out.
“They’re here Sir. And there must be a least two-hundred of them.”
“Who’s ‘they’ LaFrance? The King of England and his court? Quit talking in riddles man. Speak English.”
“Blackfoot, Sir. Wanting to talk and trade. They insist on a meeting and gifts first.”
“What the hell are they doing here this late in the fall?” Shaw stood up from his chair, walked around a bit, considering what to do.
“Well, they’re here. Can’t just turn them away. Break out the tobacco and brandy, LaFrance, and invite their principal men into Indian Hall. Keep the others out.” Shaw knew he had to accommodate them or lose the trade to his neighbors at Buckingham House.
“Buckingham House,” he snorted. “Where does the HBC come up with those damned names?” Then he considered his fort’s name, ‘Fort George’. ‘Not exactly fitting for the Canadian wilderness either,’ he thought. He waited for his men to finish preparations and LaFrance to return. He was still deep in thought when the door opened letting in the drafty cool fall air. And a little more.
“Close the door LaFrance. You’re letting in that awful stench. What is that anyway?”
LaFrance answered dutifully. “It’s from the butchering sir. We’re starting to fill the ice pits with meat for the winter, to make pemmican for the spring brigades.”
“Well, it smells God-awful. I’m glad winter will soon be here so that stench won’t be as bad. Are we ready for the meeting LaFrance? You look a little pale.”
LaFrance was standing there, trembling. “Sir the high wines are almost all gone, and what’s left tastes more like water than brandy.” LaFrance quickly looked at the door, as if getting ready for a rapid escape. He knew Shaw was going to blow his lid.
And LaFrance was right. Shaw lost it. Completely! He hurled his clay tobacco pipe at the mud wall, breaking it into little pieces. He kicked a chair, sending it flying LaFrance’s way. His Cree country wife, Marguerite, came running into the room to see what was wrong. She took one look at the scene, then quickly left.
“How in the hell can that be? The brigades just got back from Montreal two months ago and we’re already low on liquor? This is a disaster LaFrance. I’ll have to borrow more from our neighbors at an exorbitant price, of course. But not now, let’s give the Blackfoot what we have and hope it’s enough.”
After Shaw partially regained his composure, LaFrance tentatively ventured some more information. “Well Sir, about what happened. The lock on the storage cellar was tampered with again. It seems someone broke in and helped themselves to some drink.” LaFrance was stammering now, looking quite guilty, as if he might somehow have been involved.
“Some drink? The lock was tampered with? How so, LaFrance?”
“Well, smashed into little pieces, Sir.” Again the Engage looked quickly away, steadily backing toward the door. “I think Sir, we’re ready. The principal men are gathered in the Indian Hall and await you.” He turned and hurried out the door.
As Shaw walked toward the Indian room to meet the Blackfoot principal men, he thought about his not so little dilemma. He knew without alcohol, he would lose the trade to his competitors. ‘This is happening to often. Those god-damned French Canadians. They drink and party endlessly and could cost me a small fortune if this keeps up.’
Then in a more sober moment of thinking, he reluctantly admitted: ‘Well, even though they are some of the worst scoundrels around, they’re the best canoe men, carpenters, and labourers in the Canadian west. And, maybe it wasn’t them. Some of my officers aren’t exactly angles either. I’ll just have to build something to keep everyone out of the Company stores, and hide the liquor.’ He left and walked into the Indian Hall, cordially greeting the Blackfoot principal men.
…………………….
“Early this morning ten young Blackfoot came in for tobacco for a band who were to arrive later; sent, as usual, six inches to each principal man. They arrived at noon and pitched their tents, each party near the gates of their own trader. Gave them liquor as usual, one pint of Indian rum to each principal man, and they began to drink.” (from the journals of Alexander the Younger, Fort Vermilion (on the Saskatchewan near Fort George, November 12, 1809; Coues 1897:571)
They all sat and smoked, and prayed. Then one of the Blackfoot men took a sip of his brandy, blanched, and spit it all over the wood hall floor. He looked at Shaw in disgust, a deep scowl forming on his face. He spoke to Shaw’s translator, who turned a lighter shade of red.
“So, what did he say, Blanchet?” Shaw already knew but listened anyway.
Blanchet reluctantly told Shaw, while the principal men were fidgeting, as if preparing to leave. “He says this stuff tastes like horse piss, and not brandy. Next spring he’s taking all his furs to the Hudson’s Bay Company. They have good brandy there. And, he asks what that terrible smell is outside? Smells worse than a buffalo jump in the summer.”
“Tell him we had an accident with the brandy. It fell into the river on the journey up the Saskatchewan. Got a little watered down. Tell him I’ll compensate him with extra tobacco and more brandy next spring if he brings his furs to us. As to the stench. Tell him not to trade us bad meat anymore.” Blanchet translated, and the Blackfoot reluctantly sat down again, still grumbling among themselves and giving Shaw nasty stares.
Shaw stared back, thinking. ‘They will go next door anyway, to see if the HBC has a better offer, as soon as they are done here.’
The next day, the Blackfoot traded a few wolf skins and left. LaFrance came rushing up to Shaw. “Sir, the good news; they left. The bad news; with half our horses.” This time LaFrance was already out the door before the litany of curses came rushing out of Shaw’s mouth.
Shaw looked through the open door into the fort courtyard. ‘Jesus, can it get any worse than this? I’m stuck in this shithole with these drunkards for the rest of the winter. And now I have to deal with a bunch of very belligerent Natives next spring. Who keep stealing my horses, then trading them back. And this stinking meat. I’m going to get sick.’
As the events of the day went through his mind, Shaw noticed a large black plume of smoke across the river in the southwest. ‘Great! And to top it all off, they set the prairie on fire as a farewell.’ It was before noon. He was about to pour himself a stiff brandy anyway. He stopped short, realizing they didn’t have any left.
…………………..
“They [Hudson’s Bay Company] allowed us the free use of the well for some time, but at last, apprehensive of its drying up also….from the quantity taken from it by so many for all purposes, Mr. Tomison, a powerful man, refused to allow us further supplies….Mr. Tomison would not listen to any reason, indeed I had little to give him — but that if he would not give us our wants that either of us must pay a visit to the bottom of the well.” (from the memoirs of John McDonald of Garth, c.1795, Fort George, Alberta, in Morton 1929:lxii)
A few days later John McDonald of Garth was brought into Shaw’s quarters, barely standing. Kind of wobbling. “So, what the hell happened to you McDonald? Christ, you look like shit.”
McDonald, scarcely able to speak, finally got a few words out. “Well, Shhiir, I met with that scoundrel Tomison and his men at the well and I beat them up pretty badly.” Garth burped, then wobbled, having trouble keeping his feet.
Shaw looked on incredulously. They were already indebted to their neighbors for the liquor and now this man got into a fight with the HBC – about what? Water? There was a whole bloody river flowing before his eyes and John fought over the spring water supply closer by?
“Well, by the look of your face McDonald, you really put a scare into them.” Shaw remained stoic, reluctantly waiting for John to speak. He occasionally exaggerated when he told his stories. Especially when drunk.
“I did my best sir. Shhoowed them who is boss of the water, I did. They didn’t want to share the well, but I thought otherwise.”
“And, where exactly did you manage to get a hold of so much liquor, man?”
“Private stocks,” mumbled McDonald, before nearly tipping over.
Shaw just stared at his soon-to-fall-down officer in astonishment. ‘God, please help me. I’m surrounded by idiots.’ He eyed McDonald disparagingly, thinking: ‘Well maybe he’ll suit my purposes. He owes me after this little incident.’
…………………
Next spring, after all the engages and voyageurs left for Montreal, Shaw took McDonald aside and explained his plan for a new cellar for the liquor. John nodded, fully realizing that if he failed Shaw, he was done with the Company. So, he and a few trusted men worked for months to build it.
That fall, after examining the large, fresh mound of earth beside the big house, Shaw eyed McDonald. “I hope you got it right, John. If you so much as mutter a word how this here was built, you’ll be buried in it. And worse, no more brandy.” McDonald nodded solemnly. ‘What could be worse than no more brandy,’ he thought.
“One more thing John. If my stocks start disappearing, I’ll be coming after you.” McDonald visibly grew paler at those last words, but said nothing.
Soon after, the men arrived from Montreal, their canoes laden with supplies and trade goods. Including lots of brandy and rum. Joseph was grunting and cursing, shouting out to Francois behind him, two ninety-pound bales on his back. “So, we paddle for two-thousand miles to get this stuff here and then we have to haul it up to the highest bank on the river. Why not build down along the river?” Francois said nothing, only grunted in return, trying to balance his equally heavy load. He was too busy thinking about all the brandy they would drink this winter.
Once inside their fort, the men looked around. Something was different. They looked toward the Big House. Beside it, a new building, of sorts. Just a large low mound of earth.
Pierre leaned over to Louis. “Is that a new cellar? Look how close it is to the trader’s quarters. Hard to pilfer the brandy stores when it’s that close.” They put the brandy barrels near the newly built mound and looked at the mound again. Strange though, no door.
Shaw came out of his house. He looked at his somewhat confused men. “Leave the liquor here, take the rest of the provisions to the stores.” His men nodded, looking back somewhat forlornly at the brandy and rum kegs.
Once they finished, Shaw gathered them again. Now they had tired-looking puzzled faces. His men knew something was up. But what? “Gabriel, break out a barrel for the men. Let’s celebrate after the long journey.” Shaw turned, leaving them to their revelry. And soon they were falling down drunk, having already forgotten about the new mound beside the trader’s house.
Next morning the brandy barrels in front of Shaw’s House were gone. The men walked around the compound, still a little drunk and perplexed. Thinking, barely. Now focused on only one thing. ‘Where did the brandy barrels go?’ They looked at the strange mound by Shaw’s house again. No entrance. Anywhere.
Shaw sat in front of his house, smoking his pipe, watching his men. There was a look of satisfaction on his usually stoic face. He took a sip of his brandy and toasted those closest to him. “To your health Pierre, men.” Pierre only spat in return. The rest, including McDonald, only glared. Shaw only smiled in return, relishing his private stock of liquor. Not even the smell was that bad when your private stock was safe.
……………………….
Fort George, Alberta, 1978.
Harry Reed and his crew were excavating parts of the Big House at Fort George, probably the residence of Angus Shaw and his country wife. And a large subterranean structure beside the Big House. Even though it was a hot Alberta afternoon along the river, everyone was happy. This was a great fort site. As he would later learn, maybe one of the best, and most complex, he would ever excavate.
“Jay, what did you find in that big storage cellar?”
“Well, all pretty normal. It’s a wood cribbed subterranean structure with the roof coming down to the ground. Poles, with bark and sod roof. Kind of a root cellar with a roof, probably all covered with sod.” Harry looked at the sketch Jay gave him, then at Jay, and the somewhat concerned look on his assistant’s face.
“And, what else, Jay?”
“It doesn’t have an outside entrance. We’re missing something Harry.”
Harry stared at Jay. Maybe a little too long. He hated these situations. Because you kept digging until you found out why the building did not have a door. Even if it took all summer. Chasing one little fact for countless hours. Was it worth it? Who really cared if you added that fact to the historic record. He did.
Harry looked at Jay again, wondering if he was getting too much sun. “A building without an entrance. Ridiculous, Jay.” Jay looked at Harry and knew immediately what he was thinking. ‘Find the damned entrance. Even if if takes the rest of the summer.’ So, they went to work.
A few weeks later, the project now almost over, the two men sat talking, drinking their beers, overlooking the large excavated storage cellar and parts of the Big House. “So, why would he do that, Harry? Did he want all the brandy for himself?”
Harry thought for a moment, took another swig of his beer before answering. “He didn’t trust his men I guess. Not with the liquor. That was the only way he could control the supplies. And those brass spigots for casks we found down there certainly hint to liquor storage.” They sat in silence pondering their somewhat unusual find.
Fort George, 2015
The little boy, holding his father’s hand, read the interpretive sign overlooking an enormous hole in the ground at the Fort George site. “Why would the trader have a secret passageway from his house into this cellar dad?”
“Maybe he didn’t trust his men, son.”
“But what if the archaeologists hadn’t found this passageway?”
“Then, son, I guess we might not know as much about the relationship between the boss and his men.”
“But what if it doesn’t mean that at all dad? Maybe the trader was too lazy to go out in the minus forty degree winter night and get some brandy? So, he had the men build a passageway to the cellar from his quarters.”
The father looked thoughtfully at his boy. “I agree. Except for one thing. There was no other entrance, except through his quarters. I don’t think he wanted his men traipsing through his private quarters all the time. And he didn’t want them in that cellar. Looks a little suspicious to me, son.” They walked off, still a little puzzled, to read another interpretive panel at the site.
Author’s Note
For many years I thought about the peculiar storage cellar and its even stranger entrance at Fort George. Although we looked for an outside entrance, the evidence was sketchy. The concealed tunnel from Angus Shaw’s Big House to the storage cellar was real enough. Below is a sketch of the fort showing the location of the cellar and the entrance into the Big House. The cellar excavation was incredible. The roof had collapsed into it and was almost completely intact. Poles, bark and all. For me it was one of those rare archaeological moments.
Interpreting what we found, however, was the most difficult part of all. Obviously Shaw wanted a private entrance into his stores. But why? Was the little boy right? Simply for convenience? Or, because of the social distance and distrust between North West Company Scottish traders and their mostly French Canadian/Metis labourers? Other differences, including clothing, housing and food, and type of labor, also separated the Company officers from their men.
As is often the case, there is no definitive proof or one answer here. All too common when dealing with either the historic documentary or archaeological records. This story represents one of those possibilities.
References
Coues, Elliot (editor). 1897. New Light on the Early History of the Greater Northwest: The Manuscript Journals of Alexander Henry, Fur Trader of the Northwest Company, and David Thompson, Official Geographer and Explorer of the Same Company, 1799-1814. Volume 2. Ross and Haines, Minneapolis.
Kidd, Robert S. 1970. Fort George and the Early Fur Trade in Alberta. Provincial Museum and Archives of Alberta, Publication No. 2.
Masson, L. R. (editor). 1890. John McDonald of Garth Autobiographical Notes, 1791-1816. In Les Bourgeois de la Compagnie du Nord-ouest: Recits de voyages, lettres et rapports inedits relatifs au nord-ouest Canadien. Volume 2. De l’imprimerie generala. cote et cie, Quebec.
Morton, Arthur S. (editor). 1929. The Journal of Duncan M’Gillivray of the North West Company at Fort George on the Saskatchewan, 1794-5. MacMillan, Toronto.
